It's too soon to say that you have no power here, and nothing to fear. The truth is, you simply don't know enough about this state. And so you are ever wary, ever watchful.
You cannot see your own reflection, for no window in Boston, no body of water, will show it. And yet you can see yourself, and gain a fair idea of your appearance in this new, dead state.
You remain a person, more or less. Luminescent, shining. And indistinct—your hands and fingers, your arms and legs, seem to shift constantly before your eyes, as if you were surrounded at all times by a mini-cyclone that whipped around you, blurring parts of you from view. It seems to be a visual phenomenon only—when you press your hands together, they seem firm. They feel as hands should feel.
Who were you before, you wonder. Who are you now? Were you a man? A woman? You feel you remember this small part of your identity, at least, with reasonable certainty.